AFRO SYNTHETIC SHORT STORY: RENT

RENT

At sunrise, Wambui rode a battered metal that is Levibus. The levibus hovered a few centimeters above the ground, its engine thrumming behind worn metal panels. Most buildings had sleek facades and neon signs, but beneath that shine lay old rot. People huddled in shadows, their faces lost behind cheap visors or simple masks that filtered the gritty air. Drone-carts sold artificial grains and lab-grown fruit to those who could afford them. The rest dug through plastic bins for scraps. The new Kenya had promised clean energy, safe homes, and fast cures. Instead, it offered subtle chains and new ways to sell one’s self.

Wambui passed tall spires wrapped in shifting advertisements. She saw security drones drift overhead, their red eyes watching. She ignored screens broadcasting the latest luxury enhancements: neural implants, synthetic limbs, memories on demand. The city whispered that anyone could be someone else. That was the future they had imagined. Now that future felt cold and thin, a polished cage.

When she reached the gated estate, she showed her wrist tattoo to a guard. He waved her through without a word. Inside, the world softened. Well-trimmed hedges and hovering lanterns framed quiet paths. A gust of filtered air brushed her face. Refreshing.

She stepped into a white chamber where a single couch waited. At its side stood a device no bigger than a human skull. Its surface glowed with soft patterns. This was the key to her daily wage. This was how she let Mama Nasra take control.

Wambui lay down on the couch. She pressed her head into a small groove that aligned with her spine. A sharp click and a low hum. She felt warmth spread across her skull, then a prickling at the base of her neck. For a moment, her eyes blurred. The device read her neural code, separating her thoughts from her flesh. It gently loosened her hold on her own mind. She drifted off, and as she did, Mama Nasra’s presence rushed in like a tide.

For the hours that followed, Wambui’s body would be Mama Nasra’s puppet. Mama Nasra would see through Wambui’s eyes, speak with her tongue, move her limbs with practiced ease. They said the process was clean and left no marks. They said the host would sleep through it, remembering nothing. This was what high society paid for: to live a different life at will, to wear another human like a garment.

Usually, Wambui woke in the same white chamber with no memory of the day. She collected her payment and left. It was a strange way to earn a living, yet safe enough. Until today.

On this day, when her mind slid back into place, a dull ache spread behind her eyes. She noticed a dark stain on her blouse. It smelled metallic. She stumbled out of the chamber, blinking at the late afternoon glare. Normally, a helper guided her down the steps. This time, no one waited.

Wambui moved through silent halls until she found a door to a back garden. She saw fresh footprints in the red earth. At the edge of the small pond, a shoe floated. She reached down and lifted it. The shoe dripped something red that was not water.

Her mind spun with half-formed images. Mama Nasra crouching behind a bush. A flash of metal in Wambui’s own hand. A man’s voice cut short. Wambui tried to push these thoughts away, but they clung to her mind like damp leaves.

Why did she remember anything? The deal was simple: Mama Nasra used her body, and Wambui remained blank until her return. Yet here were fragments. She felt Mama Nasra’s panic. She saw Mama Nasra’s face twisted with fear. She tasted salt on her tongue. Maybe Mama Nasra’s device malfunctioned. Maybe it allowed some memories through this time.

Wambui looked at her stained clothes and shivered. She followed the footprints, each step slow and careful, until she came upon a figure hidden in tall grass. It was a man, eyes open but unseeing. The ground soaked up his blood. Wambui recognized him: a member of the estate committee. He oversaw deals. He approved who could rent bodies.

What had Mama Nasra done?

Wambui tried to decide what came next. She could flee and vanish into the city. But her body and name were known. She could talk to the authorities, but what would they believe? She had no witnesses, only a strange memory.

In the distance, she heard the hum of a patrol drone. Its lights glowed at the edge of the garden wall. She had little time.

She knelt beside the dead man and whispered a short prayer. She touched his hand. Then she rose, turned, and walked back into the estate house. She searched the small white chamber for something to explain this madness. She found only the payment packet, placed neatly beside the couch. Inside it lay more money than she had ever earned before.

The device that merged her mind and Mama Nasra’s life still hummed softly. She picked it up and felt its weight. They said these machines were perfect. They said the renter could never leak memories into the host. Yet here she was, her mind a crooked shelf holding impossible images.

The drone’s hum grew louder. Wambui stepped outside, raised her arms, and waited. If someone asked why she remembered what happened that day, she would tell them she did not know. But she knew the truth: Mama Nasra had tried to hide a crime by using someone else’s flesh. Wambui had always been a tool to Mama Nasra, but not this time. Now Wambui carried secrets in her bones. Secrets that might cost her everything.

As the drone’s spotlight pinned her to the grass, she braced herself. She had become more than a rented body. She had become a witness.